


The Between Times

by shadesofbrixton



Category: A Knight's Tale (2001)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-23
Updated: 2006-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-31 03:06:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesofbrixton/pseuds/shadesofbrixton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's on the ferry over to London that Geoff decides not to pursue Wat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Between Times

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://havenstar.livejournal.com/profile)[**havenstar**](http://havenstar.livejournal.com/)’s Week of Fic, building to her birthday on June 3. Only really, really, really late.

 

 

  
_I wanna hear you laugh like you really mean it  
Collapse into me, tired with joy_   


 

 

It's on the ferry over to London that Geoff decides not to pursue Wat.

As much fun as it is to watch the man stumble around in his own mouth, or on his own feet, it's starting to wear on Geoff. He's got a load on his shoulders significant enough to make his back ache, and the chill of the boat ride does nothing for him. His traveling companions fall silent around him, each contemplative in their own way. Which, for Wat, means falling asleep sitting up.

None of them have been getting much sleep lately – not with the way William's been winning, and all of them awake and celebrating until the dim hours of the morning. Geoff tries to remember the last time he didn't wake up with a pounding headache, and can't.

But it's more than that, in a way. It's more than the betting and the preparations. It's this weight, this solid weight of fog, that's making Geoff frown in his private moments and watch Wat's shoulders just a little closer. On the lists, it doesn't matter. There's nothing for it, and all eyes are on William.

But when no one's watching, his shoulders pull just a little more squarely. Like his back is just the slightest bit rigid, or like he's trying to make it look like he isn't in pain.

They're going to get caught.

And everyone knows it.

And each day that goes by that they don't, well, it just makes it worse and worse, in a way. Because there's more waiting, and more nerves, and it's just starting to fray at his spine. And at everyone else's.

So what business does he have trying to win Wat over – as a friend or otherwise – if every waking moment is spent thinking about William? It won't do. It doesn't do.

 

* * *

 

The march into London, Geoff slips away. His fingers are covered in smears of green and gold paint, and he wears the mark of his Knight proudly as he roams the streets, searching for reliable sources of information.

What he finds is both unexpected and welcome – two men waylay him in an alley outside of the Smithy's. It's an establishment Kate would sell her soul to spend two minutes in. They take him to the back, and he slips them both a few coins when they leave him at the door, relieved and worried both.

It's shadowed in the back, and hot from the constantly stoked fires. Germaine has already rolled up his sleeves and is pacing the small storage area. He looks up when Geoff comes in, tension carving his forehead.

"He's back," Geoff says, hand on the door. He reminds himself to close it, and then comes away, closer to Germaine, so he can lower his voice. "I wasn't sure – "

Germaine is nodding, shaking his head, like burrowed frenetic energy has finally short circuited his mind. "He's thought of nothing else. You must warn your master – Adhemar means to kill. He wants blood."

Geoff sinks gingerly onto a roughly knocked together crate. It holds beneath him, more sturdy than he'd originally thought, and he lets more of his weight rest, his breath slipping out in a rush. "Before or after the championship, do you think?"

"I'm – I'm not entirely sure." Germaine sinks down next to him, hands pressed between his knees. It pulls his shoulders up high, making him look like a very frightened vulture. "I thought before, perhaps. To make it look like an accident. But now – more and more – I think he'll wait."

"Let himself try to win it, first. Maybe if he humiliates Sir Ulrich into submission, blood won't be necessary." Geoff worries at the inside of his cheek with his tongue, and then realizes what he's doing and forces himself to stop. "But if Ulrich wins – "

They exchange a grim glance.

"We were ordered to London by the Black Prince," Germaine confesses. "I couldn't fathom it at first – I'd been sent ahead to deliver notice of reclamation to the crown." He swallows, looking at his hands. "And then when I rejoined the company…"

"I've heard," Geoff said. "I know."

Germaine can do nothing but shake his head, drained of whatever drove him to send word for Geoff in the first place. But his energy has been transferred over to the writer, who pushes himself up off of the box.

"I'll notify Ulrich of…as much as I can."

Germaine looks up, meek and worried. "Let him lose this once," Germaine pleads. "Adhemar will see blood before he allows that name to grace the championship title."

Geoff knows, utterly knows, that there is nothing that can stop William at this point, not if he wants it, and he does. "I'll do my best," he tells Germaine, and pulls the door shut behind him.

It's a quick sprint through the city that brings him into the lists at the end of the parade. They salute to the crown, the knights lining up together, and Geoff conveys what he can of the news in front of Adhemar. Let him know that their master is not without resources, Geoff thinks. Let him know that his deeds will not go unpunished.

But it doesn't phase Adhemar, and Geoff slips away again as the two men snipe at one another over Jocelyn. He spares a glance for the noblewoman, and her maid gives Geoff a courteous nod, and he nods back, letting him know that there are no messages to be passed on at present.

 

* * *

 

He finds Wat combing the horse for the first match, but Roland and Kate have disappeared.

Wat shrugs when Geoff asks him if he knows where they've gone, and unable to ply any further words from the man, Geoff collapses against the door to the stable and starts pulling out papers and ink. The scratch of his quill fills the space, along with the clink of metal and stretch of leather as Wat starts to attach armor and saddling to the horse.

Geoff watches him for a bit, the ink drying on the quill nib. The horse stands absolutely still for him. Geoff wouldn't go so far as to call it a command of the animal species in particular, but Wat's movements are sure and calming to the horse, in some way, and Geoff does admire that.

"Stop your staring," Wat grumbles, giving too sharp a tug on one of the straps. The horse shifts uneasily under the pressure.

Geoff blinks. "Sorry. Didn't realize." He drops his gaze back to the last words he's written, crosses one of them out, and tries to focus.

"Course you didn't," Wat is muttering to himself, and bends to gather the grooming combs, and picks out the proper one to work on the horse's tail. Geoff tries to remember who the horse originally belonged to, and he isn't sure. Part of him hopes that William has chosen a poor mount, perhaps the one he rode to face Adhemar the first time, to fulfill the poetic justice of the situation. Most of him, though, prays it's some sort of miracle horse, better than all the rest.

Wat starts to work through the horse's tail, and it's amazing, watching his fingers sort and tidy and unknot and sort again. Soon the tail is swishing free, and Wat binds and braids it with efficiency as the mount chews sullenly at its oat bag.

His task complete, Wat pulls up his satchel and comes to sit next to Geoff. The move surprises him a little, but he's careful not to let it show in his face, afraid it will put Wat on the defensive. The company's nice, anyway, and Wat is careful to shift his ink bottle before he sits, though he touches the container as though he's afraid he's going to spill it himself.

"Thank you," Geoff murmurs, and inks his quill again.

Wat grunts in response, pulling out a hunk of crusty bread from one of his pockets. Crumbs litter the ground, and a bird that's wandered in through the stall door eyes them cautiously. Wat tries to scrape up a few crumbs and tosses them toward the entry. It startles the bird off, at first, and then it comes hopping back, pecking at the crusty bits, wiggling its tail feathers in proprietary pleasure.

Geoff watches for a moment and, afraid the bird will fly away, turns the page oh so slowly to try not to startle it. "That's fantastic," he says out of the side of his mouth, his lips barely moving to form the words.

Wat shrugs, and throws out a few more crumbs after he runs his hand along the piece of bread. It frees the hard crust, and the bird comes an inch or two closer to inspect these new morsels. "What's so special about it? Just a bird."

The clink-tap-scratch of Geoff's constant inking and writing becomes rhythmic, even under his words. "They're impossible… and gorgeous, and spectacular. Birds are amazing, Wat, you can never tell what they're going to do next. And they never stay still long enough to get properly depicted."

Wat frowns, like he is considering smacking Geoff for using words that are too big, or for talking nonsense. Instead, he pulls out a few more tiny pieces of bread, and crumbles them in his palm.

The bird is lured closer.

Geoff stops breathing.

The bird ruffles its feathers a little, flashing an underwing of red, and its tail feathers flutter a bit as it tips itself forward to snap up the bits of bread. It watches Wat with a keen intelligence, and in a few quick pops, is nearly in his lap.

Geoff has never held so still in his life, afraid even to turn his head for a better look, as the bird pecks straight from the hunk of bread in Wat's hand. He's careful not to move.

It doesn't last more than five seconds – the horse rustles and stomps a bit, and the bird is off – but it's more than enough for Geoff to have gotten a good, wide-eyed stare in.

Wat looks at him, and shrugs. "Maybe if you paid more mind while things were going on, you wouldn't have such a hard time writing 'em later on."

"Huh," Geoff says.

Wat rolls his eyes and pushes himself up to his feet, brushing the dust off the bottom of his thighs.

"Idiot," he mutters at Geoff, for good measure.

It takes a few moments before Geoff picks his quill up again. When he does, he writes more slowly than usual.

 

* * *

 

Geoff tries to warn William against going to Cheapside, but the lure of seeing his father is too great. With the rain preventing any possible activity until tomorrow, the games are all called off, and Geoff has no real reason to restrain William for wandering where he pleases. Not that he ever does, but Germaine's warning holds itself close in his chest.

Night falls quickly under the cover of such heavy London rain, and the others seek shelter where they may. Geoff, though, goes with Wat to one of the pubs nearest to the stables to drink. It's more effort than he thinks it'll be to keep away from the card tables, but he believes Wat's threat to make him sorry for it if he goes.

As a consequence, he doesn't do much drinking. Wat, as always, is more concerned with food consumption than actual alcohol, but by the time Roland shows up, soaked to the bone, the focus flops itself and the two men get increasingly bawdy.

Feeling slightly restless, and with an overabundance of coin he'd planned to spend on the tables (not really) or at the bar (more likely), Geoff finds himself gazing out into the sleeting rain and turning another indulgence over in his mind. A real bed, warm water, hot breakfast. There's an inn next door – a small knocked out arched doorway connects the pub, as is common in most places in England. The more drunk your customer, the less likely he is to see the roaches and rats.

Geoff pushes himself up from the table, fingers ghosting over Roland's shoulder and Wat's back to let them know he's going without interrupting either of them, and books himself a room for the night.

Except once he gets up there, he doesn't know what to write.

 

* * *

 

The crack of thunder that wakes Geoff from his restless slumber precedes a lightning bolt bright enough to illuminate the entire room.

He's not sure when he fell asleep – only that he did, of course – and that he didn't build the fire up properly when he did, because now it's nearly in embers. The room isn't cold enough to bother working it up again, but it does mean that there's not enough light to see his hand in front of his face, with the moon and stars concealed by storm clouds.

Geoff rummages through his coat, thrown over the end of the bed, until he can secure some candle stubs, and pushes himself up out of bed to light them by the fire, using the glowing ends of ashed-up bits of wood.

The candles take a bit of persuading in the summer humidity, but the wick does crack to life eventually. He carries the little stub back to the bedside, where two of its brethren await their lit counterpart on the bedside. No point in burning all three at once.

He's just about to get up again to get his quills when the thunder rattles the room again. The aftershock of the sound rings in his ears to the extreme that it takes him a split second to realize someone's pounding on the door.

Alarmed – instincts immediately going to William having been apprehended, who else would wake him in the night – he springs from the bed and scrambles to unlatch the door, candle gripped in his hand.

His fears are confirmed when Wat shoves past him into the room, candlelight burnishing the impossibly red hair that gives him his only clue as to who his visitor is – he can't see well enough, otherwise.

"Let me grab my things," he says, but Wat doesn't hear him, is instantly pacing, fretting, muttering too quickly for Geoff to even make it out. Something inside him is torn – ratcheted fear for William, and a dual instinct that this isn't about their lord, for once.

The lightning flashes, and Wat almost comes out of his skin.

Geoff blinks against the retinal burn, and locks the door up again, striding purposefully around Wat to set the candle down. Wat trails after him, looking irate, lost, and scared. Geoff turns around, and takes him by the shoulders.

"What's wrong?"

Thunder. Wat tenses, and Geoff can feel the small, constant shiver through the muscles of his body, and frowns.

"…the storm?" he guesses, and the jerky nod he gets in return makes him try to remember whether or not they've encountered thunder and lightning at any other point on their trip. Not that he can recall, at least – or not that he was around the other man for.

"Come on," he said, pulling Wat down onto the mattress. As soon as Wat, resisting, rests beside him, he wraps a long arm around the man's shoulders. "It's alright. It'll pass."

Wat _whimpers_. Geoff blinks, baffled, and has no idea what to do. They listen to the sheeting rain for a time, and Wat starts to relax against him, piece by piece. The shaking stops, except for when he sucks in a shuddering breath.

Geoff's voice is quiet, cautious. "I never knew you were afraid of storms."

He thinks that Wat isn't going to answer. But the voice comes, gruff and muffled. "'m not."

The instinct is to keep quiet, but Geoff's never been very good at that, or at listening to his inner voice of wisdom. His voice comes out fondly taunting. "What are you afraid of, then?"

He gets a punch to the upper arm, hard and fast – but mostly hard – that sends him verbally wincing and he draws back automatically, but Wat's already huddling into his body space, against his chest. Geoff rolls his eyes at the incongruity of the man.

But Wat doesn't answer, so Geoff doesn't press him again. The next crack of thunder that comes sets the shutter to rattling, and Wat to squirming. Geoff gets out of bed. Wat doesn't protest, but the red shock of hair does pop up out of the pillows to watch him, wary eyed, as Geoff circles around the bed and gets in on the other side.

"What're you – " Wat tries to ask, and Geoff shushes him, not cross, but firm.

Geoff burrows down between Wat and the window, Wat still curled on his side, and Geoff slips up behind him and loops an arm over his stomach. The next burst of thunder comes and Wat shivers against his form, but it's better this way.

 

* * *

 

It takes Geoff a moment to remember where he is. Not who he's with – he's used to waking up with Wat, it's something his body intrinsically knows after so any weeks of sleeping in close quarters with so many people. But the bed, the scent of damp wood, the dawn chill and mist, the springtime version of the marsh fogs, paints the room in unfamiliarity.

Wat stirs restlessly and shifts closer to him, burrowing under the covers. The shutters have blown open, Geoff realizes, and thinks that might've been what woke him in the first place. He slips carefully out of bed to pull them shut again, and checks the hearth. The wood is morning-damp but he coaxes a small fire out of it by the time his thighs start to cramp.

He expects Wat will wake at any moment to complain about being hungry or hung over, but either the turmoil from the storm or the late hour he was up keeps Wat soundly asleep while Geoff unwraps his writing materials and works as quietly as possible. It's an awkward courtesy, but one he extends nonetheless.

Still, Wat sleeps, even when Geoff's jaw cracks as he yawns and slips back into bed. They have another few hours before they need to be at the lists, and Geoff's mind is busy with his final speech, the tour de force of their season. His own personal championship performance. His mind too busy to even sleep, but he goes through the motions, closing his eyes and letting his hands pool and tangle in the soft, threadbare sheets.

Wat mumbles and rolls, and it presses his back all along Geoff again, which sends another small noise of content curling out of the man.

Wat doesn't wake slowly. It's a jump of a process, and Geoff hadn't even been aware of how quiet he'd gone until Wat's sharp inhale rouses him. The sound is followed by a quick exhale, and the body next to him relaxes into the sheets again, splaying wider when an arm flops itself over onto him.

"Mmf," Geoff says. And then, sarcastic: "Sleep well?"

"Shut up," Wat grumbles, managing to sound muffled despite resting on his back. "Too early for you."

"The hazard of waking up in my bed, I'm afraid," Geoff says. He takes a moment to rearrange himself under the covers, a complicated shift by stages that seems to involve turning his limbs before his torso follows. The end result is that he settles on his stomach, arms folded under his head, and regards Wat closely. "How _did_ you sleep?"

Wat, who throughout this ordeal of shifting disturbance, has been cultivating his strongest glare at Geoff, gives him a wary glance over, no doubt, the sincerity in the question. "Slept fine," he says sullenly, after a moment. "Suppose now you're gonna run an' tell all the others."

It takes Geoff a moment to suss out what Wat means. "It hadn't crossed my mind," Geoff says, eyebrows propped in surprise. "We're all afraid of something. A storm seems a fairly normal occurrence." Fury clouds Wat's expression before Geoff hastily clarifies. "Perfectly normal to be afraid of."

Wat grunts and crosses his arms over his chest, like he's trying to keep himself from hitting Geoff. Except such a measure of restraint isn't something Geoff's ever experienced from Wat. "What're you afraid of, then?" he demands.

Geoff blinks. It is a fair question, after all. "You mean aside from getting killed by debtors?"

"Should've left you to – " Wat starts.

"Shush," Geoff laughs. "I'm afraid of boats."

Wat gives him a flat look.

"I mean it," Geoff says. "I can't sail. I hate being over large bodies of water. So I guess it's that I'm afraid of drowning, rather."

"The channel raft – " Wat protests.

"Thought I was going to piss myself," Geoff says cheerily.

Wat blinks. "Huh."

Geoff's grin reemerges, trapped against the pale skin of his arm. It takes a moment before Wat is willing to look at him properly, which is to say without scowling, except then he realizes that Geoff has been watching him, and the expression blossoms forth.

"What?" Wat demands.

Geoff's smile slips fully around his mouth and he props his head up in one hand. "Nothing," he says, just a touch too innocent to keep Wat from squinting at him. "I just like to look," Geoff allows. "Didn't you say I spent too much time ignoring?"

"Didn't mean me," Wat says, and reaches out to shove him. Geoff's arm is knocked out from under him, and he ends up half collapsing onto Wat's arm, and takes the imprisoned limb to his advantage, pushing himself up onto Wat's chest to beam down at him. "G'off," Wat mumbles, which Geoff thinks probably is supposed to mean 'get off' and not an abbreviation of his name, considering the tone.

Wat tries to apply his body weight upward, and Geoff, ever difficult, applies his own downward. Wat collapses with an 'oof' into the sheets again, glaring up warily, expectantly, waiting for whatever torture Geoff wishes to apply to be concluded so he can go about his business of revenge.

The kiss is, as kisses go, terribly short. Except that Geoff thinks it's quite possible that his heart stops about half way through, the gentle press of his mouth to Wat's sending is whole body to a screaming halt. This extension of time, however, does not afford him any heightened sense memory. He has no time to absorb the sensation of it, because his mind is occupied with a single thought:

Oh bugger.

And right fully so, he discovers, as Wat jerks back and punches him in the middle of the chest. His sternum throbs in protest and the air is pushed violently out of his lungs in a sort of wheeze that sends him sprawling off to the side. His fingers creep up to massage at the ache.

"What'd you – what – what!" Wat explodes, scrambling out of the bed. Most of the covers go with him.

Now, Geoff knows, is the time to dazzle Wat with his wit and intelligence, to convince him of his worthiness as a kisser, or even a lover, but mostly, to make it out alive.

He says: "Ah."

Wat blinks at him. "What?" he blurts again. "You do – something like – like that – and then all – that's all you got t'say for yourself?"

Geoff is reminded rather forcefully of being scolded by his _mother_. "Was it that bad?" he asks, mildly cross, and pushes himself up in the bed.

"What!" Wat sputters, yanking an arm free of the blankets that cling to him, and Geoff wonders if his vocabulary is narrowing, or the man's always made such obsessive use of the four letter word. "That's not – "

Geoff's out of the bed and loping across the room before Wat's eyes can react to get wildly large. He's heard enough. There's no hesitation in Wat's voice, but Geoff doesn't much care, because the worst that can happen is that he gets slugged in the chest again.

Wat tries to retreat, and Geoff presses him carefully up against the door, the distinct contact of each of his ten fingers curling around Wat's bare shoulders making the sensation wildly acute.

But Wat's mouth meets his this time, the kiss unexpected and just as solid a jolt to Geoff's lungs as the punch that followed the first one was.

It's short, and not particularly sweet, before Wat pushes him away a bit. The shorter man's hands are wrapped around Geoff's shoulders, so he can't go too far, but the presence of space is suddenly quite palpable. Wat levels him with a look.

Geoff's eyes flick down to his feet, to where Wat's tangled up in the sheets still, and then back up, his voice quiet.

"I tried," he says. "I really did try not to. I'm sorry."

"It's a sin," Wat protests gruffly.

Geoff's eyes go fierce, and he isn't even aware that his fingers have gone tight on the man's shoulders until Wat frowns. "So is adultery." Geoff gives him a challenging look. "Do you care?"

There is an instant – just an instant – where Geoff is certain Wat will push him away. It hangs in his eyes, like so, and Geoff forgets to breathe.

And then Wat's mouth crashes against his, sending them both wheeling back toward the bed, legs tangling in sheets an Geoff has to catch Wat, lift him bodily free of the tangle and toss him onto the feathery mattress. Wat won't allow the separation for long, reaching up even as Geoff's fingers collide with Wat's trousers. The man's eyes go huge and he lifts his hips up while Geoff works open the fastenings, and two hands at his ankles whip the cloth down and off. Geoff looks up to see Wat wrestling out of his shirt and laughs, dives between his legs, scattering kisses from his hipbone up to his throat until Wat grabs his hair and hauls him down for more kisses.

He settles carefully between Wat's legs, the heavy leather of his pants dragging against Wat's skin in odd starts and stops, and Wat shivers beneath him as they kiss. Wat's mouth is warm and his morning breath is horrible, and neither the apocalypse nor William's exposure itself could tear him away right now. Blasphemy, Wat would say.

Wat does something with his tongue that make Geoff's hips give an involuntary forward jerk, which in turn sends Wat into a soft moan into Geoff's mouth, which quite efficiently blows all of Geoff's remaining coherent thought all at once.

But it's Wat who's speaking, as Geoff blinks hazily down at him, the muscles in his thighs aching to push forward again, to circle his hips down on Wat. "You alright?" Wat asks, his expression wary. As though he thinks Geoff might've changed his mind. Geoff wonders, vacantly, what noise he must've uttered to cause that.

"Have you done this before?" Geoff asks.

Wat blinks up at him, slightly panicked. "What, haven't you?"

Geoff blinks back. And then the smile dawns, and he catches Wat's lower lip between his teeth for a moment. "I meant with another man."

"Oh," Wat says. He shoots a cross look at Geoff for having made him worry, and then his hands are back on Geoff's hips, tiny little convulsions of the grip, like he's trying not to haul Geoff closer. "Yeah."

Geoff gapes at him slightly, and then kisses them both breathless, and Geoff loses track of time and position and the next thing he knows he's on his side, Wat's hand around the back of his trousers, between cloth and skin, grabbing at his ass to haul him flush groin to groin. Wat's hair is in complete and total disarray, Geoff notices before his front sparks against Wat's.

"What happened to sin?" Geoff gasps against Wat's throat, bending to lick at the pulse below his ear.

"Done plenty of sinnin', too," Wat growls, and grinds against him. Geoff's answering cry is sharp and short, and he squirms against Wat, trying to insinuate against Wat's fingers so that someone else will get these damn leathers off of him without his having to try, because he's pretty sure his fingers aren't up to the task.

It also occurs to him, a little belatedly, that Wat can't at _all_ be enjoying the rough grind of the leather against his naked skin. But as he manages to get Geoff's pants off – Geoff's sort of lost in his shirt at this point, which is why he misses it – and they toss any remaining clothing as far away from the bed as possible, Geoff notices he's very, very wrong. Wat is hard, and not only that, he's got the sort of hungry look in his eye Geoff's only ever seen him point at the most extravagant food.

Wat pins him back into the cushions, sending the sheet up in a puff of protest, but Geoff couldn't be happier if he rolled over and found Christ himself stripping to join in. "Oh my god," he murmurs as Wat slides his cock against Geoff's stomach, pushing them both together. He gets a bite to his mouth for that, and then the warm soothe of Wat's tongue to follow.

How has he resisted this? _How_ has he resisted this? How has he condescended to think that Wat would have no idea – here his brain shuts down, as Wat reaches down to catch both of their erections between his wide palm, breath shucking in Geoff's throat. The lazy, satisfied expression on the man's face at the way Geoff's eyes go surprised is too much to resist. Geoff wraps his hands around Wat's ass and pulls him down, hard, pushing them against each other, and this time Wat groans rewardingly.

"This how you want it?" Wat asks him, and with anyone else Geoff would have assumed it was dirty talk – but with Wat, no, it's a genuine question, like he has options. It takes him a few tries to process words, and eventually they come out.

"This time," he says. He seems to come back to himself a little, despite the soft squeeze Wat puts around the base of his cock, and he leans up to mouth at the slight scruff on Wat's jaw. "Next time," he murmurs against the skin, teeth grazing warm flesh, "I'm going to put you in my mouth."

"Oh, fuck," Wat says, a shaky curse, the arm next to Geoff's head going taut. Geoff barrels on without pause.

"And if we can find some lubricant that you won't _eat_ , I want you to fuck me…any way you can manage. Knees in the air, bent over the bed, on my back, riding you, don't care, want you so much – "

Wat growls, trying to stifle a cry, and sinks his teeth into Geoff's shoulder, hips bucking erratically. "You want – " he moans against Geoff's skin, his breath hot and moist.

"Oh yeah," Geoff assurs him, hips tilting up off the bed. He plants his feet so he can fuck up against Wat, his head rolling back in the pillows. Wat seems to take that as invitation to feast on his throat, every touch of his mouth feeling overblown on Geoff's sensitive nerves. "Again, and again…"

"The others – " Wat tries to protest, and Geoff cuts him off with a groaned rejoinder.

"Don't care," he grinds out, bottom lip catching in his teeth for a moment. "Don't stop – don't stop, Wat…"

Wat makes the familiar incredulous sound – why would I? – that Geoff is used to associating with his own stupidity, and almost laughs. Did laugh, if he had been paying attention, which he isn't. At all. He's leaking enough – or is it Wat? – to make the strokes roughshod smooth, and an accidental meeting of the exposed crown of his cock nudging Wat's makes him reach down to lend a hand, to make it happen again.

His breath is stolen by Wat's mouth, and there are no more words – no more air to breath them out, and no time to think, anyway, as Wat leaves his hand up to the stroking and drops his own, rubbing at Geoff's balls in a move so startling it makes him arch his back up off the bed, and then he's coming hard and fast on his own chest, the slick of it spreading enough that he realizes the muffled shout in his mouth was Wat's climax as well.

Wat collapses against him, heavier than Geoff remembers, and not at all particularly comfortable. But he's too blissed to care. He stares up at the ceiling, blinking slowly, trying to get his proverbial feet back under him, and not pay attention to the warmth of Wat on his chest, or the way it feels to have the other man breathing against him. Wat speaks first, which surprises him – he hasn't actually thought the other man would.

"Well," Wat says, pushing up on an elbow and peering down at the mess between them. "Now I'm going to have to wash again."

"Again?" Geoff blurts, laughter in his voice. "Two weeks – "

"Two weeks is enough!" Wat says, shaking a finger in Geoff's face, as he pushes himself off to the side and flops onto his back. "Ugh," he says, but the tone is more like a happy sound than a disgusted one.

"Mmhm," Geoff says, fingers trailing through the stickiness on his abdomen.

Wat cuts a glare over at him. "Again?" he says.

Geoff cracks up. "Now? I – "

Wat hits him. "Not _now_ , you prat, there's the tournament to see to."

"Mm, right. Later?"

The affirmative grunt comes immediately, and an unexpected little giddy thrill runs up Geoff's spine.

"I'm good with later," he says, reaching for the discarded sheet to wipe at himself. "And I can't believe I'm saying this, but we don't have time to wash. You need to go get the horse ready, and I need to disappear long enough to make a dashingly dramatic entrance."

Wat eyes him like he's trying to figure out if Geoff deserves another smack for that, but is apparently too pleased with himself to bother. Geoff curls against his side and wipes at his stomach, getting the worst of the mess away. His stroking fingers still, and he looks up at Wat, and kisses him.

It's different, this time. Nicer, though it still tastes horrid, and Wat is going to have to lay off the garlic because Christ and the saints that's horrific. But there is no hitting, and no horrifying drop of his stomach out of being unsure of himself, and no tangle of emotions to drive him back.

"Got to go," Wat murmurs against his mouth. "C'mon."

Geoff whines good naturedly, but pushs himself up enough – though Wat's hand in his hair seem to contradict the order and pull him down for a few last kisses – to get out of bed. They both hop around in their clothing, sorting out where whatever had gone, and they are hunting up Geoff's other shoe when Wat pipes up again.

"Thanks," he says roughly, and Geoff looks at him in surprise. He shrugs. "For the storm," he says. "Not the…other."

"Good," Geoff says, relieved. It is odd to be thanked for anything in bed, he felt. It makes him feel weird and guilty, like he ought to be thanking as well. He finds the shoe and stuffs his foot into it, and goes over to the small table. "I need to pack up my kit. Say good morning to them all for me, will you?"

Wat shrugs again, saying he would or he wouldn't, maybe, depends. Geoff grins, and Wat pulls open the door. He stops only long enough to look back at Geoff, and they both pause, grinning like idiots at each other, before Wat shakes himself and pulls out of the room.

There is a moment of silence, and Geoff sighs a giddy sigh to himself, and gathers the rest of his things, stuffing this or that into his coat pockets. He pats them down to make sure he's remembered everything, when a knock at the door sounds. His face blisters into a smile, and he bounds over to it, expecting Wat to have forgotten something on a pretense of more kisses.

But when he pulls it open, there are armed guards standing outside, and Germaine looking rather ill. "It's about the Patents," he says, and it's enough for Geoff's entire stomach cavity to lift into his throat. He manages to keep from vomiting, and nods cautiously. "We need to see them," Germaine says sadly.

Geoff wonders who the hell he's speaking for, when the guards part and the captain of the lists appears, with a smug looking Adhemar at his side. "Of course," Geoff says smoothly, and nods for them to lead the way. They'll go to the registry office, where the documents are kept, and from then there isn't much Geoff can do. He prays he'll have a little time to warn his lord – William, he mentally corrects himself, except there isn't much difference anymore, is there – and he suspects from the way Germaine keeps trying to catch his eye that he's somehow arranged for a public arrest. Adhemar will want him humiliated in front of as many people as possible.

They get outside, and head toward the registry office when Geoff spots Christiana milling by a flower stall. He makes a wild motion at her with his hand behind his back, and it takes her a few times, and a sharp nod of his head before she catches on, and bounds up to him.

"Good sir!" she cries, tugging on his sleeve. "Good sir a word, I have forgotten – to – um – "

"Yes of course," Geoff blurts, and gestures apologetically, looking back at Adhemar. Oh, Christ. Just what he needs. Jocelyn's maid asking him for help. Digging William deeper.

"It doesn't matter," Adhemar snaps, and waves the guards on. "The Patents will read as I predict." He turns his icy gaze on Geoff, and for the first time, Geoff feels real fear, in his spine. "I expect him at the lists on time. The royal guards will be waiting."

Christiana freezes next to him, but they turn on and go without him. He's gripping her wrist hard to keep her from asking any questions, and when the guards are gone, he looks at her, and knows he's as pale as he feels.

"We've got to warn them," she says, tugging him toward the stables. "Come – we've got to – "

He nods, numbly, and follows. But his mind is gone, elsewhere, trying to find the right words to fix and patch this. She guides him, and he lets his mind wander.

All is lost.

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://havenstar.livejournal.com/profile)[ **havenstar**](http://havenstar.livejournal.com/) and I, a year ago, started writing fic for A Knight's Tale. She wrote the first one, actually, a lovely piece that I often forget exists. Because our fandom experience went in three stages: the fic, the role-playing, and the fic redux. And with each iteration, our understanding of Chaucer and Wat became more intimate and layered. It wasn't until the RP that I actually started to feel comfortable writing Geoff – that's what the fic that was written before that period feels like some other, weird, foreign fandom. And then the fic redux – all the fic over at [](http://fic-orphanage.livejournal.com/profile)[**fic_orphanage**](http://fic-orphanage.livejournal.com/).
> 
> If you've ever been over there, you've seen the different AU versions of the fandom that we've evolved. Every time period we can think up to put these boys in, we do. Every once in a while something from the original setting will take place, but it's becoming more and more rare, I think. And the other thing, is that after the original founding 'canon' of this fiction: the RP, if you will, or maybe the first AU fic, where they're transplanted into modern times – after the 'canon' of the fic, we never bothered to try and explain it again.
> 
> Because why bother? It's too sweet, and easy, to play around in a sandbox that's already been filled with toys. Each fic has a growing awareness of its history – even though the timelines don't overlap (or try not to overlap) each time we use these boys, they've learned something from their past selves. We might tear them apart as often as we like, but they always find their way back to one another in the end.
> 
> If this were any other fic, it would follow a formula. It would have reference to the ring that Geoff gives Wat in another fic, or it would switch perspectives. There would undoubtedly be reference to [the Fowlehurst family tree](http://pictures.greatestjournal.com/userimg/5173769/985123). Or there would be tea, or coffee, or honey or plums, or Tuesdays. Or a tavern, at the very least. Geoff would be the worldly knowledgeable self-confident writer, or a book collector, or a journalist. Wat would be the oblivious and inexperienced innocent bystander who would eventually cave.
> 
> But when you strip away all the things that I forget aren't canon, and strip and strip and strip away some more… well, you still get basically the same thing. Sue me. The point is, this takes us back further than we've ever gone before – back to the film itself, without any outstanding canon.


End file.
